


Falling Toward Apotheosis

by nhpw



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fisting, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Misha, Breathplay, Cock Cages, Cock Rings, Control Issues, Creepy Jensen, Crying Misha, Dehumanization, Dom Jensen, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Gags, Handcuffs, Heavy BDSM, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, Power Dynamics, Restraints, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sub Misha, Top Jensen, surprise feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhpw/pseuds/nhpw
Summary: They kept climbing the wall, perhaps in search of a ceiling - or perhaps ignoring the signals that said they should stop, turn back, they’d gone too high. Instead, they had this. And it was perfect, and Jensen never wanted it to end.





	Falling Toward Apotheosis

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from one of my favorite Babylon 5 episodes. 
> 
> When I started writing this, I was in a very dark place emotionally. I was coming out of it near the end, which is probably why the ending has a different sort of feel - albeit no less ominous - than the beginning. But I've been wanting to write something heavy and intense and borderline psychologically thrilling for awhile, and these two finally stepped up to volunteer as muses. The Dom Jensen surprised me, I'll confess, but overall I'm happy with how it turned out.
> 
> It's intense, as I said, so mind the tags, and enjoy.

The truth was, Jensen liked to make Misha cry. He was so pretty when he did, choking on Jensen’s cock, or speared in the ass with it, getting fucked so hard he screamed and cried and begged, and Jensen would stop, he really would, he was certain that he could, except…

Well, except.

Except Misha didn’t beg him to stop. He begged for more. He begged for it harder, deeper,  _ please, Jensen, please… _

It hadn’t always been like that, granted, and it had taken a few sessions to break Misha Collins down to his most primal desires, and when they’d gotten here, once Misha was broken and Jensen could see clear through to his pure soul… God, it was beautiful.

“You really are an angel, aren’t you?” He’d marveled that first time, getting to his knees so he’d be on Misha’s level, so he could cup his chin and look into his bloodshot eyes, examine the bruises, trace the tear tracks with one single, curious finger. “Faith in humanity even after everything it’s done to you, despite our flaws, despite our… imperfections… in comparison to you.” He hummed an amused laugh at that thought. “They got the casting right on with this one, didn’t they?” The only sound that came from Misha was a broken sob, and Jensen ran the pad of his thumb over Misha’s chapped lips before leaning in to kiss him, hard and deep, like he owned that mouth.

Maybe he did.

Maybe he owned all of Misha, now.

It had been two months since that break -- two months of rebuilding Misha, of shaping him and molding him into the perfect plaything. Now Misha was obedient and eager, and he adhered to all of Jensen’s requests and played to his ego and his twisted fantasies exactly the way no one else ever had, the way no one else ever would.

And playing with him was so much fun.

The thing about the tears was that they fell for so many different reasons. Tears of pain from a flogging and tears of frustration from not being allowed to orgasm were two distinctly different things. Jensen liked them both. He also liked the begging, of course, or sometimes he liked just to have his perfectly behaved pet warming his cock all through a movie or sitting all through dinner on a vibrating plug with their co-stars none-the-wiser, and Jensen pushing the remote’s buttons whenever he pleased.

Maybe it was cruel. Maybe it was sadistic.

But Misha was a masochist, and although he whined and whimpered and screamed and cried --  _ God  _ how he cried -- he never actually complained. He never asked for it to stop.

Jensen liked to think that he  _ could  _ stop, if asked - but the truth was, he hoped that was never put to the test, because the rush he got from his activities with Misha was so intense, got him so high that he didn’t ever want to come down, and sometimes if he timed it right, he could live in that headspace for days, feeding off the power like it was an intravenous drug.

It was like that this weekend.

They’d wrapped late on Friday -- well, early Saturday morning, if he was going to get technical about it -- and he’d waved Clif off when the man had asked about taking him home. “I’m going with Mish,” he’d said casually, and then slid into step beside Misha, waiting until they were safely inside Misha’s car before sliding a hand up to fist into Misha’s hair and pull him in for a breathless kiss. Misha mewled in surprise but surrendered almost instantly, melting, letting Jensen’s tongue explore his mouth in long sweeps. When he’d had his fill, he pulled back, only to settle his left hand firmly between Misha’s denim-clad thighs and begin stroking a thumb lightly over where he knew Misha’s cock to be, even if it wasn’t hard yet. “Drive,” he’d said. “We’re going to my place.”

“Does my wife know?” It was Misha’s only caveat, his only hangup - and the only thing that nagged at Jensen, if he was honest, because in the end it meant the power wasn’t really his. It was Vicki’s. He tried not to dwell on that, though, and if he was perfectly honest, it really only bothered him when he was this desperate to have Misha all to himself.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he murmured, eyes focused on the road ahead as he continued to stimulate Misha through his jeans. “She signed off.”

Misha’s response wasn’t verbal, so at that, Jensen did turn his head, and he did so in time to catch a tight swallow down the line of Misha’s throat.

And so now here they were, squirreled away in Jensen’s Vancouver townhouse for two solid days of… whatever Jensen wanted. Sleep had been a priority when they’d first arrived, but Jensen had made sure to secure a plug and cock cage on his toy before they’d laid down nude on Jensen’s bed and passed out. When Jensen’s eyes opened again at the crack of 10:30, he frowned at his morning wood momentarily before remembering his plans for today and glancing to his left, a wolfish smile on his face.

Misha was turned away from him, laying on his side, and Jensen drank his fill of that muscular back and perfect ass and those gorgeous thighs before getting up to his knees so that he could roll his plaything onto his back.

His beauty wasn’t fair at all. “Time to wake up, Mish,” he mumbled, palming the other man’s cheek. “Time to play.”

There was a grunt of protest, and Jensen patted that same cheek encouragingly until Misha’s eyes cracked open. That was enough for Jensen. He swung his leg around so that he was straddling Misha’s chest, his hard-on bobbing obscenely in front of Misha’s mouth. “Breakfast of champions,” he announced, placing his right hand behind Misha’s head to guide himself through slightly parted lips.

He wasted no time on gentleness, instead going deep right away - Misha could take it, he’d done it before, his throat was so wonderfully relaxed and pliant first thing in the morning - and then settled into a lazy face-fucking pace, occasionally pulling all the way up so that Misha could breathe and to encourage that miraculous tongue to lick and taste right from the source. He liked when Misha tasted only of him, simple as that.

“So good at this, Mish… made for this… Oh yeah… Oh baby…” He hissed and thrust back in, rocking his hips, his hand tightening in Misha’s hair at the back of his head as he got closer to the edge. Then he held that beautiful face in his hands and thrust in deep, stealing all of Misha’s breath, making his angel’s world all about him and only him and yeah, there were those tears at the corners of his eyes as he fought for breath, and that was what Jensen needed to see to send him tumbling into his orgasm.

He stayed in that warm, wet mouth until he was completely spent, and then pulled up just far enough to allow Misha to draw breath and lick him clean. Then he pulled out and leaned down to take Misha’s mouth in a passionate kiss. “You really are the best. I’m a lucky man.”

He climbed out of bed then, and strolled leisurely to the kitchen in search of something to fill his stomach before beginning their day. He had big plans; they were both going to need something substantial in their bellies. “Don’t go anywhere,” he called back over his shoulder on a whim.

But it was unnecessary, purely for show. Because Misha was perfect, and obedient, and Misha would never run away.

Misha was his.

***

Really, Misha had a lot of regrets about his relationship with Jensen Ackles.

Like. A lot.

And he’d thought about calling it off - the idea had crossed his mind at least a dozen times since his first scene with Jensen, four months prior - but the truth was, Jensen gave him something he needed that he couldn’t find anywhere else. He was sadistic, and perverted, and when he was with Misha his ego soared to insurmountable heights - but he took Misha apart like no lover, no partner, no trained Dominant, like  _ no one _ had ever done. He crawled up in Misha’s pscyhe, tripped all his triggers, broke him down to a primal mess, to his very foundation, and it was addicting like no substance that had ever passed Misha’s lips. It kept him coming back for more. It kept him from saying no, from calling red, from walking away for good.

He knew that he could do that. He knew he had that power.

He wasn’t sure Jensen remembered, and that was getting to be a problem - but Misha did, and the fact that he did and Jensen maybe didn’t meant that Misha still had the upper hand. He’d promised himself, in fact, that if he ever felt himself losing that perspective - that if he sunk so deeply into his role as Jensen’s perfect little submissive plaything that he started to forget that he could quit at any time - that’s exactly when he would need to pull the plug and walk away.

But he wasn’t there, not by a long shot.

And when it came right down to it, he needed this just as much as Jensen did.

They’d both signed a contract, and their wives as witnesses and co-conspirators, that said he agreed to submit to Jensen, mentally and physically, at his Dominant’s will, save only for a few hard limits, and for Vicki’s permission prior to each scene.

Misha wasn’t sure when that had gone from  _ I want to do a little orgasm control with Misha on set today _ to  _ I want to spend the weekend using his body like a toy _ but it crossed his mind as he lay there, unable to get hard and trying to remind himself to breathe deeply through his nose to let himself recover from the breath play, that he should maybe ask Vicki about it when this weekend was over.

He wondered if that alone might mean he was toeing the danger line.

When Jensen appeared at the bedroom door with a tray made up for breakfast in bed - two bowls of cereal, two glasses of orange juice, two sides of strawberries and red grapes - he decided not. At the very least, he’d give this the weekend before voicing his concerns.

At the  _ very  _ least.

***

Second only to Misha’s tears was Misha’s body. It was  _ fascinating _ \- the way he twitched when Jensen drew patterns with his fingernail on the head of Misha’s overstimulated dick; the way he visibly clenched and relaxed every muscle in time with the swing of the paddle; the way he arched and heaved in the throes of a long-awaited orgasm when Jensen finally decided he’d had enough teasing and allowed him to tumble over the edge.

He’d learned something new recently, which was that the best way to keep Misha eager and wanting was to play with his dick after he came - not right away, but after a few minutes so he wasn’t over-sensitive to the point of pain; and not roughly, but gently, with soft touches to his balls and fingers barely ghosting the prick itself. 

And the minute Misha moaned or whined, he’d stop.

It meant that Misha was ready again, interested again, recovered from the last round and in a position to be prepared for the next time Jensen wanted to play.

On Saturday, they had breakfast in bed, and their conversation was casual, bordering on mundane - updates on kids and spouses, speculation on the forthcoming season finale script. After, Jensen took their dishes and the food tray to the kitchen and removed the cage so that Misha could relieve himself properly and then, because he wasn’t a total asshole and he did actually sometimes favor quieter, more intimate moments with Misha on a lazy weekend morning, he instructed the man to lay out on his stomach and went about giving him a back massage.

He loved kneading out the kinks in Misha’s muscles, actually - feeling that powerful tightness under his hands, making it melt until it was more putty than sinew, feeling that body he admired so much go completely slack by his own doing. He kept going until Misha’s breath was even and his eyes were closed, and Jensen thought he might be asleep.

Then he sat up, retrieved a bag from under his bed, and pulled out a pair of padded cuffs. He liked these a lot - they were padded red leather, connected by a chain, with a ring at the center of the chain which allowed the attachment to a longer chain that would bring the two wrists above Misha’s head in tandem, and could be fastened either to the hook in the center of the headboard or to any of the several hooks in the ceiling.

Jensen chose the hook directly above the center of the bed this time, and he encouraged Misha to his knees and around to face the headboard as he secured the rigging, leaving no slack in the chain that would allow Misha to sit back on his haunches. He gave it a tug once, checked the cuffs for safety, and then reached back into the bag for a different plug than the one Misha had worn overnight. This one was slightly bigger at the base, and had a prostate massager that vibrated by remote. It was ideal for today, he decided, and so he slicked it with lube and slid it into Misha’s ass without ceremony. He was plenty loose and relaxed and barely winced at the intrusion, which Jensen smirked at.

Idly he wondered, if he relaxed Misha enough, if he could take more than one dick at a time. Not that he’d ever let another man touch Misha, of course - it would need to be a dildo, or maybe Vicki or Dee with a strap-on.

The idea made him frown thoughtfully. 

Maybe later.

For now, he stood behind Misha and toyed with the plug-end of the massager until he knew from Misha’s reaction that he’d settled it against Misha’s prostate.

With a click, he turned it on the lowest setting.

“Mmmm,” Misha hummed, and Jensen smiled wolfishly behind him.

“Feel nice, Mish?”

“Nice,” Misha repeated in a faraway tone, and Jensen rounded his body to pat at his cheeks and shake him by the chin until he was certain Misha was looking at him.

“Hey now. Don’t you go slipping away on me just yet. That’s no fun.” Misha bit his lip and nodded, and Jensen shook his head hard at that and this time, instead of a pat, he slapped Misha’s right cheek firmly. “Knock it off. We haven’t even started yet.”

“Yes Sir.” Better. But it was slurred and uncertain. He slapped the same cheek again.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” 

Misha’s jaw clenched and his gaze met Jensen’s with unmistakable fire. “I said Yes. Sir.”

“Better. Now we can begin.”

***

Vicki had warned him that Jensen was getting more unstable, and maybe he should have listened. But the thing was - aside from the fact that he got a release out of this, too, that he couldn’t get anywhere else - it crossed his mind pretty frequently that if he was Jensen’s willing plaything, then at least it was  _ him _ . At least it wasn’t  _ someone else _ .

He kept that in mind as he cried out against the ball gag Jensen had shoved in his mouth after he’d decided that Misha was being too loud and might draw unwanted attention from the neighbors. Jensen had warmed his ass with a firm hand before deploying nipple clamps and a cock ring, upping the intensity on the vibrator, and switching to his favorite flogger, which was heavy and made of the same red leather as the cuffs currently binding Misha’s wrists. It fell steadily, rhythmically, and that was actually fine because a rhythm was predictable and comfortable and allowed Misha to pull his mind into subspace.

He ceased to be aware of it anymore after about two minutes - and only became aware of it again when it was no longer present, and Jensen’s arms were coming around him from behind in a possessive embrace. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, nosing into Misha’s jaw, licking a trail up his cheek - up his tear tracks, he knew. Jensen had a kink about Misha’s tears, and he made no secret of that fact.

The ball gag was loosened and removed, tossed aside, and Jensen took up a new position on the bed in front of Misha. He sat with his legs crossed, akin to a child expecting a story or gifts, and studied Misha’s aching erection. “So beautiful,” he repeated, more of a mumble this time as he traced the swollen organ with the nail of his pointer finger, studying it closely as he went. “So responsive, too. I’ll never get over the way it twitches for me. The things I can make it do...” The fascinated lilt to his tone definitely bordered on creepy, but Misha had grown used to it. It was the way Jensen went about things when he was admiring Misha - sort of a weird slant on body worship, in which he appreciated Misha while taking some level of credit for the things he was admiring. 

He scooted forward and started lapping at the head of Misha’s dick, an almost lazy licking-and-sucking-and-nuzzling bit that was essentially akin to making out with it. And it was nice, felt nice, except that he kept doing it, didn’t escalate in intensity, didn’t involve his hands or any sort of suction at all, and Misha was already hard to the point of aching. His balls were tight and full and he was desperate to get off, but Jensen had that cock ring on tight, and there was just no way. He tilted his face to the ceiling as the tears started again, this time in frustration and a different sort of pain, as Jensen continued his attentions. He choked out a sob, and heard a dark chuckle in response, and then Jensen popped off his dick and fucking tickled it with his fingertips.

Misha couldn’t help it.

He broke.

He started crying outright, pleas for mercy bubbling out of his lips in a nearly nonsensical stream. “Please, Jensen, please Sir please it hurts please…”

“Not yet.”

_ “Please!” _

“You can take more. I know you can.” His tone was unnervingly calm and quiet as he responded and then shifted to his knees, bringing himself eye to eye with Misha. He pulled down his head by the neck and kissed him, as slow and patient as if they were just a couple of mundane boyfriends making out on a lazy Saturday morning on the couch.

Except his hands were playing, and he was turning up the vibration of the massager again.

Misha’s scream was inhuman, and he lost all ability for coherent thought. He pulled at his chains, bucked his hips, tried to get to his feet only to be firmly held in place by a hand on his hip. “Take it. Feel it, Misha, feel it in your bones, feel how good it is, how  _ right  _ it is, when I take you apart like this.” Hot and hissed and tight, right up against his ear, audible above his own screams, and then suddenly the hand holding him in place was reaching down between his ass cheeks and pulling out the vibrator, and then Jensen was behind him, pushing in, holding him firm with an arm across his chest and the other squeezing his cock and pumping hard, merciless, and Misha wasn’t sure what was happening, really, except that he was being filled and fucked and he was floating and it was a glorious, beautiful blurred edge of pain and pleasure that Misha could write lines upon lines of poetry about. 

His lips were moving, he knew it, but he had no idea what nonsense or obscenities or words of worship might be babbling out of them. He was in another place, looking down at himself, a veritable ragdoll on the end of Jensen’s dick.

It was aesthetic, and breathtaking, and then,  _ fucking hell _ , then he suddenly felt a release of pressure and he knew Jensen had taken off the cockring.

“Come on my cock, Pet.” It was a command, with a hint of threat.  _ Or not at all _ . It went unsaid, but somehow through the haze, Misha heard it anyway.

It didn’t matter.

By this point his body responded to Jensen’s commands as if they’d come from inside Misha’s own head. It was all the encouragement he needed to let go.

Jensen continued to stroke him through the orgasm, and even after he was fully spent, until he started to cry out in agony from overstimulation. And then, blissfully, he stopped, dropped a kiss to Misha’s shoulder, and reached up to release the chain rigging above their heads.

He was vaguely aware of Jensen folding around him bodily and laying him down on the bed, and then there was the feel of a warm, wet washcloth running over his skin, followed by tiny pecks of lips, little worshiping kisses, and the removal of the nipple clamps. His head was lifted and a bottle pressed to his lips, and he drank in his fill of water before laying back down.

Jensen hadn’t yet returned to the bed when Misha let go of his consciousness.

***

Jensen cleaned off the prostate massager and washed himself up in a two-minute shower before returning to the bedroom, and by that time, Misha was asleep. He looked blissful and innocent this way, passed out nude and well-used, and Jensen propped himself against the doorframe to admire his plaything for a moment. 

There was no tension in the shoulders; no crease in the brow. He looked for all the world like he’d melted onto the bed - and that wasn’t far from the truth.

He was gorgeous. Perfect. And this picturesque view was all Jensen’s doing. He had brought Misha to this level of complete relaxation. Him.

_ Mine _ .  _ All mine _ .

The thing was - Jensen had his most lucid, normal thoughts about Misha in these quiet moments after an intense scene, where he’d pushed to the limits and they’d both come away satisfied. In moments like this, he was able to acknowledge that he was walking a precarious line. He knew his level of possessiveness with Misha, and the intensity of their play, had gotten increasingly more dark, more dangerous. He pushed harder, farther, because when he was in that Top Space, he felt invincible. He was high on it, and the harder he pushed, the higher he got. And Misha… Misha was perfect. Misha never disappointed him. Misha didn’t complain or question or ask for more than he was given. And that just made it worse.

He wondered what he’d do if, just once, Misha mouthed off to him. If Misha was disobedient. If Misha refused… or called red.

If Misha asked if they could just have sex, like normal people, and cuddle afterward, instead of doing aftercare and tending to wounds.

He almost wanted to find out.  _ Almost _ .

But that was the whole reason they were doing this, wasn’t it? That was the reason this worked so well. They both got something out of it. Misha unpacked his emotions by submitting without question, and Jensen rode high on domination without having to interrupt his flow for check-ins. Misha got nothing out of being disobedient, and if he was perfectly honest with himself, it would probably throw Jensen into such a tailspin to have to hand down an  _ actual  _ punishment that he’d crash horribly and not know what to do with himself. 

So instead, they kept climbing the wall, perhaps in search of a ceiling - or perhaps ignoring the signals that said they should stop, turn back, they’d gone too high. Instead, they had this. And it was perfect, and Jensen never wanted it to end.

On that thought he returned to the bed and sidled up to Misha’s sleeping form. He ran a reverent hand over the flank before gently rolling Misha onto his back and palming the flaccid prick between Misha’s legs.

He gave the head a swipe with his thumb, and then his tongue. He dipped a finger into Misha’s hole, still very open despite the lack of a plug, and sloppy with lube and come. He groaned at the knowledge that he’d already come twice, and his refractory period wasn’t what it used to be. He wouldn’t be ready to go again for some time.

In all likelihood, Misha wouldn’t either - but he did start to stir and groan at the attention to already sensitive areas. At the first signs of wakefulness, Jensen patted patted his cheek firmly to help bring him around. “Come on back to me, Mish. I know you know better than to think we’re done just because I let you get off. And hey, speaking of, I feel like you forgot a little gratitude about that before you passed out on me, don’t you think?”

“Thank you, Sir,” Misha mumbled, but Jensen wasn’t satisfied, and he fingered Misha’s asshole faster, harder, and added a second finger. “Ughhhhnnn…”

“What was that? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“I said thank you, Sir. Thank-- you for-- oh-- Jensen it’s--”

“Next words out of your mouth better be  _ it’s an honor, Sir. _ ” He had a feeling that wasn’t quite where Misha had been going with his line of speech, so better to nip that in the bud before it got any further.

“It’s-- it’s an honor--Jensen--Sir. Thank you for-- using me and-- Ohhhh God--”

“Too much? Is it too much? Hey. Look at me, you gonna crap out on me again?”

“Nnn-- no. No Sir.”

“Better not. It’s barely noon on the first day. I’ve got big plans for the rest of this weekend, and I won’t have you fucking it up.” He slipped a third finger inside Misha’s hole, and with a look at wide, fearful blue eyes, he added the pinky quickly. The stretch was unbelievable, and Jensen could barely move his hand.

He held eye contact with Misha and caught the exact moment the scream began in his chest as Jensen tucked his thumb and pushed it inside. 

“Incredible,” he muttered to himself, nearly inaudible beneath Misha’s moans of pain and pleasure. “Look at that. Look at you, taking my fist like a champ. You amaze me every day.” He shook his head and chuckled before pulling out his hand and patting the inside of Misha’s thigh with the clean one. “So. Uh… here.” He pulled the largest plug he owned from the bag and pushed it in without ceremony. “We’re going to experiment some more with that later.” A waggle of his eyebrows and a cursory peck to Misha’s brow, and he stood up to leave the bedroom. “I’ll bring you lunch in a bit,” he offered as an afterthought. “Don’t, uh. You know. Go anywhere.” And, chuckling to himself and his earlier misgivings pushed aside, he left the room, the soundtrack of Misha’s whimpers setting a tone as he wandered to the living room, where he picked up his phone. He was deep into a Words With Friends battle with Jared, and he had a great word he’d been meaning to play.

***

On Monday night, Misha went home to his wife.

She sighed, and she took him in her arms, and she washed him in the shower, and she kissed his bruises and they didn’t have sex, but they held each other all through the night, until the next morning, when Vicki said, “Are you done?” because that’s what she always said.

And he said what he always said, too. “No.” Because… he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

They made love, though.

It was beautiful, rainbows and butterflies and gentle caresses he could melt into. But she didn’t give him what Jensen did. Yes, she was his world, and she made him feel safe and whole and loved and wanted, and complete and she was home and a million other things that poets had babbled on about for centuries.

But she didn’t hurt him.

She didn’t break him down.

She didn’t take him apart.

She didn’t reduce him to nothing but nerve endings and emotions.

He could write a million perfectly syncopated love sonnets about Vicki. She was the summer day in the garden and the winter’s eve by the fire. Every stanza rhymed. Every word was perfect.

Jensen was a hard-knocks, curse-riddled, early draft of slam poetry.

But Misha needed them both to feel well-versed. He always would. He knew that. She knew that. Jensen probably knew that, too.

“You want me to talk to him at all?”

“Nah.”

“Nah?”

“He’s fine.”

“He’s not fine, Misha. He’s coming unhinged, and I’m worried about you.”

He fell quiet for a moment, just laying there next to her in the bed, him on his back and her curled into his side. Finally he said, more into the open air than to her, “I’m not sure that’s actually true.”

“Oh no?”

“I think it’s more like…” He stalled again.

“Like?”

“Like he’s looking for something to help him finish his poem.”

She didn’t answer, and he couldn’t blame her. It was a weird-ass comment to anyone who couldn’t see inside his head.

“I’m not sure you’re the right person for that job anymore.”

But he was.

Because if not him… then who else?

And if not Jensen… then who else?

“I think we have to finish this one together,” he said at last, playing to the analogy.

It was her turn to fall silent, and after awhile he wondered if maybe she’d fallen asleep. But then she said against the skin of his chest, “Just be careful, OK?” and he knew she understood.

“Always.”

He pressed a kiss into her hair at the crown of her head and closed his eyes, and that was the last thing he remembered before he drifted off again, until an hour later, when he woke up to a text from Jensen.

_ Wear the bright pink plug and meet me in my trailer at noon. XO, J _ .

He grimaced and clenched his muscles - every muscle below the waist screamed at him to say no.

_ Of course, Sir. See you then.  _


End file.
